It starts the same way it always does, with the slow, groggy ascent to consciousness; the smell of rust and blood, and the sick knot of pain radiating out from the hot, foreign weight in the center of his chest. And as always there's the wave of sheer panic and terror as he tears the bandages aside, reaches blindly to follow the wires-
But it doesn't come, the calm and quiet word of warning. The break from the routine is enough to jar him out of it, to blunt the sharp edges of remembered pain and fear. He sits up, as clumsy and graceless as he was the first time, but the figure by the fire is not the one he'd been expecting to see.
Confusion settles around him like a scarf, wrapping his head in soft cotton and familiarity. It's cloying, suffocating, he wants to raise his hands and claw at it like it's a tangible thing to be grasped. He doesn't, knows it's futile to try, and realizes almost to late that it's probably the only thing that makes sense
( ... )
He manages to more or less sit up, hunched over with fingertips pressed against the rough edges of metal protruding from the gaping hole in his sternum. It's always the memories that are worst; hazy from pain and blood loss but still conscious, pinned down and struggling and screaming as the scalpel slides through flesh and bone cracks and splinters under the saw. The memory is something he can suppress, most of the time, but it comes back to him in his dreams.
(You're not supposed to be able to feel pain in dreams, he knows that. And yet here they are. In the waking world, on the rare occasions he lets himself think about it, he supposes it's part memory and part bleed-through from the ever-present ache that sits above his heart every moment. It never stopped hurting, that's the thing. His body healed as best it could around the metal embedded in it, and the pain eased off, but it never stopped. The jagged edges are always there; waiting to catch him if he moves the wrong way, waiting for their chance to tear free and kill him
( ... )
As if held in place by a spell awaiting the command, Steve surges to his feet at Tony's strangled words. He sounds complete awful, like he swallowed glass and the words were being shredded as they worked their way up the man's throat. And Steve hated himself for wanting Tony to not stop speaking because his voice, as harsh and horrid as it sounded, was proof that Tony was here, alive. Those wires streaming from his chest and throat raw, but he was breathing and talking to him and alive, alive, alive.
Navigating around the fire, Steve was beside Tony in moments, kneeling by the dingy cot and reaching towards his friend. He didn't know where to place them, didn't know where Tony was hurt, so they stalled on either side of Tony's face as Steve's eyes roamed over the patchwork of bruises and dirt, grime and flecks of blood that made up more of Tony's skin than actual skin.
"I don't know what you mean by that, Tony, but I sure as heck am glad I'm here," He breathed out earnestly, smile falling short of anything but pained.
He shifts away with a vaguely negative sort of mutter, hands raised as though to ward off any potential touch. This just keeps getting weirder. He's used to bickering with Steve; that's normal. That's comfortable. This...apparent overt concern for his wellbeing is strange and unnatural, and is weirding him out beyond all reason. It's not the only thing that isn't right, but thinking clearly enough to work out what and why seems entirely beyond him right now-
And then, at long last, comes the moment of clarity. This isn't real. It makes sense of the lingering feeling of wrongness, eases off the desperate, fluttering edges of panic. "You're not really," he assures Steve nonsensically. Well it's his subconscious. Here of all places he's not required to make sense if he doesn't want to.
But it doesn't come, the calm and quiet word of warning. The break from the routine is enough to jar him out of it, to blunt the sharp edges of remembered pain and fear. He sits up, as clumsy and graceless as he was the first time, but the figure by the fire is not the one he'd been expecting to see.
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(You're not supposed to be able to feel pain in dreams, he knows that. And yet here they are. In the waking world, on the rare occasions he lets himself think about it, he supposes it's part memory and part bleed-through from the ever-present ache that sits above his heart every moment. It never stopped hurting, that's the thing. His body healed as best it could around the metal embedded in it, and the pain eased off, but it never stopped. The jagged edges are always there; waiting to catch him if he moves the wrong way, waiting for their chance to tear free and kill him ( ... )
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Navigating around the fire, Steve was beside Tony in moments, kneeling by the dingy cot and reaching towards his friend. He didn't know where to place them, didn't know where Tony was hurt, so they stalled on either side of Tony's face as Steve's eyes roamed over the patchwork of bruises and dirt, grime and flecks of blood that made up more of Tony's skin than actual skin.
"I don't know what you mean by that, Tony, but I sure as heck am glad I'm here," He breathed out earnestly, smile falling short of anything but pained.
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And then, at long last, comes the moment of clarity. This isn't real. It makes sense of the lingering feeling of wrongness, eases off the desperate, fluttering edges of panic. "You're not really," he assures Steve nonsensically. Well it's his subconscious. Here of all places he's not required to make sense if he doesn't want to.
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